Like An Arm In A Car Door
by Gragagagagagagaga
Summary: Vengeance or salvation? Semantics. It's simple. One queston. Watch as the Joker dies... OOC, AU, language, violence, horror, sex, incest, gore, drugs, tripped-out-ness, self-mutilation, character death, noncon, necrophillia.
1. Chapter 1

AN: So, here it is. Nolanverse…..sort of. It's quite bizarre and I totally beat the hell out of the characters for my own amusement. This is BEYOND alternate universe and not much like the comic or any of its reincarnations. There is a good chance that almost anything offensive or fucked up that you can imagine will be in here, so don't complain to me when you come across it. Tell me what you think. Concrit is greatly appreciated.

* * *

It was an endless string of events mangled and incoherent in his mind.

Eyes. Grey. Very unlike his. Clear and focused and cold. Penetrating and silver like…like a knife. Knives. Yes, _that_ was the feeling and suddenly they were no longer eyes but two glinting knives, their dull edges ghosting across his skin in waves of pleasurable discomfort. It was a soft agony and the strike was coming. Oh yes, the tearing pressure and the giddy pleasure of your own blood seething and dispersing from within you. Breaking free. It was deliciously lurid and to his addled mind it was a caress that never came. And oh how he longed to be touched…

Touch was not something he felt often being what he was and whatever that was he could not seem to recall, but there was a child crying. A child bawling. A child with no face and no form but a distinct shape. It was a child that appeared to be rotting away. A blackened eyeless corpse was what it was and he could see through the eyes of this vile formless child scraping itself against the floor. He could feel it. Every movement sounded like a rusty nail scraping across an endless expanse of blackboard.

The cacophony of high pitched friction and the child's forlorn wails finally rattled him beyond repair. The dull frigid knives denying him the pleasure of release, those cries, that corpse of a child, those _fucking_ eyes…

"Dahlia!" The Joker screamed. He thrashed against his restraints to no avail. They held him tightly. He shivered and moaned and screamed as if he was simultaneously in the throws of passion and having his skin peeled away with an old unserrated knife strip by strip by strip. "Dahlia!" He howled and the nurse standing beside his bed jumped. The machines monitoring the patient were beeping and buzzing frantically to signal his distress and imminent death if nothing was done.

"Dr. Crane! He cannot take anymore! We must end this now! It won't be long until he-" She stopped as the Joker flat lined. His body lay still.

It was then that she looked at him for the very first time. Apart from the scars, he was handsome. In fact he seemed almost and angelic sans face paint, his scars lending him the frown of an errant child. She watched as he was revived. Throughout the entire ordeal she did not look to the far corner of the room, where she would have seen Dr. Jonathan Crane grinning madly.

Honestly, he didn't give a _fuck_ if the treatment was successful. He couldn't give a _shit. _He'd already been paid. And as long as he continued to be paid a million dollars a month, he would continue to dose the _freak _with whatever the hell his mysterious employer thought appropriate_. _It wasn't as if anyone cared what happened to the Joker. Hell, they would say he deserved it.

They were right.

Dr. Crane smirked. Sure it wasn't his usual brand of fear, but whatever the hell it was it was gold. Pure. Sadistic. Unadulterated. Gold.

He had never heard the _freak _scream before.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Not mine

It was an endless string of events mangled and incoherent in his mind.

He knew his name was not James and every time she called him thusly it made him want to scream. It made him want to beat her. Strangle her. Kill her. Not kiss her…

Fanged teeth tore apart his lips and every last bit of exposed skin. He remembered the feeling. He remembered feeling like every last bit of skin she touched would rot away and ooze and bleed. He writhed and screamed as his flesh was pierced again and again and again.

"Stop! Please!" He cried, unable to see and suddenly felt clawed hands against his flaccid flesh. He inhaled deeply before imploring through even more wretched cries. Dark laughter erupted and suddenly whatever had kept him blind was burned away and he could see. The contents of his stomach burst from within and coated the walls as disembodied silver eyes glared at him.

"You don't like that?" The fanged mouth hissed dangerously, raining foul breath on him as a forked tongue traced the underside of his cock. More vomit issued from his stomach and he screamed. He choked as rogue pieces lodged themselves in his throat. His eyes closed of their own volition as he fought to expel them. As the teeth bit into his flesh he screamed…

Oh, that and, he didn't want to put his mouth anywhere the dog's had been.

A green room sagged with heat amidst his half-tangible nightmares. "You don't exist." The walls breathed over and over again as he raised the shard of broken glass to his wrist.

"And they can't take someone to the hospital who doesn't exist!" He growled madly with a sickening grin as he hacked into his wrist.

" 'Cause I don't exist! I don't exi-ist! I don't exi-ist!" He sang over and over again as he unfeelingly dug the shard of glass in even deeper.

He shattered into a million pieces. Bloodless and fleshless shards littered the cold floor in the little dark room.

She wanted to put him back together.

The little bitch with a normal family and a _happy _normal life and a million other _fucking_ things he couldn't even begin to guess at wanted to _fix_ him! She had no right and_ no_ fucking idea. She could fucking _eat _him as far as he was concerned.

"Let me in Daniel." She whispered. He could see those horrid silver eyes through the slats in the door. Those familiar, frightening silver eyes.

Oh. He'd let her in…

Dr. Crane tapped his chin in thought as the Joker fell unconscious once more. After months upon months of funding him illegally drugging the freak with memory repressors his mysterious employer was arranging a pick up. For an extra two million he was to bring the Joker to the corner of Gerard and 9th.

While he was curious as to what would happen to the poor bastard he was happy to remain in the dark if it brought him enough money to fund any and all of his experiments for the rest of his life. In exactly a months time another two million would be placed directly into his hands.

He smirked. He would have to make the best of his final month with the Joker. Oh! Did he have plans!

* * *

Fish finger: Yeah, but he totally deserves it. Thanks!

AN: Here is installment 2! Le plot thickens….Mwahaha!


	3. Chapter 3

He never would have expected a black Cadillac to be waiting on the corner of Gerard and Ninth. What he expected even less was a beautiful woman, her face obscured in the darkness by a dark headscarf to casually step from the black car. She was of slender feminine build and her shapely legs were encased in formfitting black slacks, the rest hidden behind a becoming dark coat. Soft blonde curls trailed out of her head scarf and she wore sunglasses even though it was dark. She pulled a tiny device from the coat pocket resting on her hip and pressed it to her lips.

"Have you got it?" The chilling mechanical drawl he had become used to over the past months cut through the night air. Dr. Crane smirked as he opened his car door to reveal the unconscious form of a young man, his blonde hair matted and falling to the opposite side of his face sprawled in the back seats of his car. A scarred grin further marred his sallow skin. Silence ensued as the obscured figure peered into the car and Dr. Crane watched her.

A croaky metallic purr shattered the silence and something about it turned the Doctor's stomach.

* * *

Security guard Samuel Hughes had only been a guard at Arkham for two weeks when the Joker had first escaped. While he had not been anywhere near the actual sight of escape and had not been on long enough to develop an emotional attachment to the two guards the joker had murdered on his way out, it had been enough to make him reconsider his profession. The guard's faces had been sliced in an eerie smile from ear to ear with only god knows what. Hughes promptly quit, however had been at Arkham long enough to become familiar with the principle staff.

It was for this very reason, as he walked along Gerard Street on his way to the market on a crisp October night, that he was able to immediately identify bloodless corpse lying on the corner of Gerard and Ninth as Dr. Jonathan Crane.

He knew better than to touch the man to check for vital signs (the bullet lodged in his chest made any such action perfunctory. He also knew that as a black man in a bad neighborhood at night, calling the cops would almost guarantee him a spot in jail for at least a night, regardless of his innocence. He put his cell phone away and walked until he came to a phone booth three streets over. He fished a quarter out of his pocket with clammy hands and quickly dialed 911.

"Hello…" A distinctly female and distinctly bored voice droned from the other end of the line, along with the usual spiel.

"There's a body on the corner of Gerard and Ninth." He breathed into the phone and hung up so quickly that he barely heard the woman's surprised gasp. He nearly sprinted away from the booth and into a nearby diner.

* * *

"…and that's when she said 'These shoes will match perfectly with my dress!" And all I could think was…"

Bruce Wayne sighed miserably as his date for the evening droned on and on about something. He was not entirely sure what, nor did he particularly care to find out. She was just another air-headed upper-class doll and he needed to keep up appearances. He had a feeling that she was not all that fond of him either. Why else would she see fit to torture him?

"…because there is just a fine line between vintage print and carpet bag, you know? And she looked more like she was a gaudy wall-paper mummy…"

Bruce sighed as sirens blared in the distance. He pulled over, feeling as if the extra seconds he would now be forced to spend in this woman's company were the equivalent of being relocated from the first to forth circle of hell. Her blatantly fake black eye lashes fluttered as she laughed and her impossibly large yellow hair brushed his arm as the momentum of the car forced her closer.

He watched the police cars and ambulance fly by.

"…I mean, honestly. Whoever said that orange is the new pink is seriously deranged-"

"Where do you think they're going?" He asked and the blonde woman looked almost offended at being cut off. She huffed slightly and waved his thought away with one of her orange hands. Bruce thought she rather resembled an overly-made-up carrot or an anorexic pumpkin with fake eyelashes and a bad wig. "Looks like to the _slums_." The way she said slums made him cringe.

He focused his attention toward the quickly disappearing ambulance as she resumed her inane prattle with a vengeance. As he restarted the Lamborghini and flew back into the lane he took out his phone and texted Alfred.

_Keep an eye open_

He sent, knowing that if anything important were to happen Alfred would no doubt contact him and was probably already surveying the city from the bat cave and watching the news. He felt his phone vibrating in his pocket and pulled it out of his pocket at the next light. The lavish restaurant he was taking tonight's bimbo to loomed in the distance as he quickly peered at his phone.

_Cut tonight short_; it read and Bruce actually smiled. He could deal with that.

* * *

Review Reply:

pride1289: Thanks!


	4. Chapter 4

Bruce could tell that the little blonde was definitely not happy that he had dropped her back off at her penthouse, alone, without so much as a kiss goodnight. He knew that in about fifteen minutes her entire circle of young bleach blonde nitwits would be gossiping about what a poor date he was. It unnerved him but he really could not bring himself to touch any part of her. He had always found the taste of self tanner repulsive.

He had always liked his women a bit paler; porcelain and pure with a soft honest glow. Just like Rachel's skin had been…

"Damn it Bruce, three fucking years." He sighed emptily as his car slowed. He no longer contained the spirit for a fast ride and merely coasted along stretch after stretch of road. The night hung thick and silent like a funeral shroud and Bruce felt numb in its company as he floated farther and farther away from the effervescent heart of the city on the inky night. There were no distractions in the darkness.

* * *

Commissioner Jim Gordon sat in the morgue looking at the corpse of Dr. Jonathan Crane. The man's once handsome face was frozen grey and obviously flabbergasted. They had reported that the Joker had yet again escaped Arkham. A warning had been issued on the evening news as well as all of the details.

Gordon's heart dropped into his stomach. This would be the maniac's first escape since the condemnation of batman. It seemed that he was the only one who could stop him and now it seemed he had disappeared. After all, why on earth would he protect a city which wanted him dead? Why would he risk his life for millions of people who despised him? For what did he really sacrifice?

Jim Gordon knew that he would come back. He knew with out a doubt that batman would return and see to it that the joker was returned to Arkham. It was beyond logic. It was truth. The same voice that vehemently insisted that batman would return barely whispered another, far more disturbing, _truth_. The masses and it seemed his entire office were content to believe that the Joker had escaped, just as he had done twice before. However Jim Gordon could see through his untouchable façade.

While he knew not to underestimate his enemies under any circumstances, he also knew not to overestimate them in the areas which were applicable. The man was nearly intuitive when it came to judging character, and he had worked hard to strengthen this uncanny ability since the betrayals from within his own office during the Joker's first _escapades._

He knew that the joker was many things. He was fearless and bold, warped and twisted, naïve yet insightful, brilliant yet childishly insipid. He was a master of deception and detachment and machination. He was a perpetual peter pan with deep seated anguish and unflappable resourcefulness. He was a transparent and garish mask. And yet as deeply as he had pondered the Joker there was little he could definitively pinpoint about him aside from one central truth. The Joker, it seemed, could be anyone or anything at any given time. However the one thing he never had been was pragmatic.

The Joker did not deign to use common logic. He did not see things through the eyes of the unconscious similarly-minded majority. He did not do things because they _made sense_. He positively loathed any kind of sense.

And kidnapping a doctor in the dead of night, forcing him into setting you free, and then shooting him before he can call the authorities just made too much sense! It was the perfect plan. It would draw little attention and be quick and relatively painless. It was subtle.

"The Joker is _not_ subtle." Gordon mumbled lamely to the corpse. Needless to say, it didn't have much to say on the matter.

"The Joker blows things up! Creates mass chaos! Massacres innocent bystanders in then ame of his own morality! He does not silently slip away into the night. He is a narcissist and an instigator who feeds off of anarchy and distress! He's a functional vampire!" Gordon cried as one of the forensic pathology interns walked into the morgue to find the famed police commissioner preaching vehemently to a corpse.

"Sir," The mousy young woman began only to nearly wet herself with fear as he turned toward her, eyes blazing.

"He didn't escape!" Gordon cried before stalking out of the morgue and back to his own domain, where much to everyone's annoyance he ordered a, what was in their opinion completely perfunctory, full scale investigation on the Joker's supposed escape.

--

Green Walls Green Walls Green Walls

Green Walls Green Walls Green Walls

"Hush Baby."

Green Walls Green Walls Green—The Joker tensed automatically as a soft hand came down on his forehead. It burned. It was touch he had not felt in years. It was a familiar caress he had forgotten. And there was so much he had—Green Walls—forgotten. He keened and a light chuckle sliced through his over-sensitized ears like the tiniest shards of glass.

The walls were breathing.

"We're together again, baby."

He couldn't feel his hands as the circulation had long since left them. They had been tied to the headboard for nearly four hours. He felt something soft and cool against his forehead and closed his eyes to shut out the—Green Walls—and the—silver eyes—and the… Just like before, just like the prison, just like the closet, just like his old room. She had put him there.

Color and sound swayed in a precarious chorus as her voice pierced his quazi-consciousness.

_Shards of my heart, _

_You could pass 'em through a needle _

_For little old I _

_Buttercup can't seem to wheedle _

_The love out of you _

_Baby sweet, my golden beetle… _

"Tweedle dee dee dada doo…" The Joker hummed unconsciously in his sleep as a beautiful woman bent down to press a savage kiss to his unresponsive lips. Her silver eyes closed and her golden hair draped over the pair as she tangled her fair hands in his freshly hand washed hair.

"Now, how has my Jamie been?" She said with a small pout and inflection identical to the ones of the young man before her. She cut apart his hospital garb with a knife she pulled from beneath his pillow and eyed his body suspiciously. Her eyes narrowed at the hickey-like bruise on his collar bone. She immediately took the knife to it and carved away the offending bruise as he howled in agony.

"Jamie, I can't have you going about with other women! Don't you understand, baby?" She said sadly as she peeled away the hickey, leaving only a laceration gushing deep red.

He nodded blankly as blood loss forced him into another deep sleep. The woman sighed happily and curled her body around him, some of her auric hair mingling with his while the rest became ensanguined and matted with his blood.

* * *

Bruce sighed as he entered his estate, ready to shrug off his jacket and disappear in his oversized bed. An obviously worried Alfred waited by the door, affronted when the young man ignored him entirely.

"Master Bruce," Alfred began and Bruce sighed before turning to face him. He raised a questioning eyebrow half-heartedly. "I believe that something terrible has happened to The Joker." The Pale man sighed and Bruce's face contorted angrily.

"Good!" He growled before stalking out of sight. Alfred sighed. Master Wayne was never in a good mood after any kind of social gathering. He resolved to speak to the man the following morning.

* * *

Author's note/ Review Replies

Pride1289: Sounds like fun. lol.

Caleigho: thank you very much. That is exactly what I am going for.

AN: oh snap. So, if you are reading this and you are into it and also into Harry Potter I'm about half-way through a novel-length Harry Potter fic. Its not as twisted or trippy as this will prove to be, but it has its moments. Check it out.


	5. Chapter 5

"I want you only to consider it, Master Wayne." Alfred pleaded as they sat in one of the mansion's many drawing rooms and Bruce stared idly out of the window, his head resting limply in his hands. A look of incredulity ghosted across his tired face briefly as a passing helicopter whirred by. Light filtered in strips through binds, casting strange patterns across his sharp features.

"I simply cannot believe it Alfred. It's not possible." He returned with a melancholic vehemence found only in the emotionally drained.

"But it is! It makes perfect sense and you know it."

"The Joker is not a helpless child! He steals! He lies! He murders! He blows up hospitals for the sheer fucking _hell_ of it! He is _not_ a victim!"

"You think a man like that's not a victim? He's practically a victim of himself. In fact, he's far too much a victim of himself to act so…rationally." Bruce did not respond and Alfred stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder. "They found the tapes in the rubble of the precinct. "Crane was shot cleanly. The Joker does not use guns and even if he did, where would he have gotten one?" Bruce still did not respond and this time Alfred knelt before him painstakingly, his old bones creaking. "They found heaps upon heaps of counterfeit bills in Crane's apartment. Millions." Bruce's eyes widened. "Who do you think gave it to him sir? Certainly not the Joker. The last heap of money he came across he burned like a bloody pyre-"

"No one would pay for the Joker's escape."

"No one we know, sir."

Bruce frowned deeply, for the first time looking at his butler. "What are you saying Alfred?"

"A man like him, though seemingly not at all, is just a man. Men live, men die, men are _born, _and men have pasts. It is a good bet that a person from his past has kidnapped him, although since we know nothing of his past, we do not know whom."

"But they would have to be insane!" The younger man swore as he ran his fingers through his hair.

"Undoubtedly, sir." His butler replied with a sardonic little grin and Bruce sighed.

"You want me to investigate, don't you?"

"Of course! Whether he's been kidnapped or escaped he belongs in that asylum! I don't care if he's out roaming the bloody streets or under the watch of his Great Aunt Tessie! The man does not belong out in the world! I'm just telling you where the evidence points, sir."

He sighed and rubbed his temples before walking toward the window and splaying his fingers against the play of light and shadow. Through the crook of his arm he peered back at his long-time servant and constant friend.

"You're right." He breathed, utterly defeated.

Alfred nodded. "I've sent out for some information. It should arrive within the next few days." He sad and fled the room before Bruce could further question him.

* * *

Diane Gordon sighed miserably as she toed her worn house slippers on and off at a loss of what else to do. For the first time in months a day when both of her kids were out and she and her husband were in blessedly coincided. She had been ecstatic when the realization first hit her. She and Jim had, had very little time to spend together since he had been promoted to commissioner and while she was both very proud and happy for her husband, she missed him greatly.

She had woken up that Sunday morning expecting a simple day of cuddling and bad television and sex with her husband and found their bed empty.

"Jim!" She called and received no reply. After several more useless attempts she peeled herself from her bed, wrapped her naked body in a red silk robe she had not even thought of wearing in months and toed down the stairs. She entered the living room to find him pacing madly.

Her heart sank. This would never do. She had not seen him so worked up since the Joker had terrorized Gotham years ago. His mouth was drawn into a thin line, his eyes were hard, and his hands quaked as he shot from wall to parallel wall and back again.

"Jim." She said quietly and he did not respond. She walked up to him an placed a hand on his arm. He sighed, not even deigning to mask his annoyance as she stopped him. He looked up at her expectantly; obviously eager to find out what was so important that she felt it necessary to disturb him.

As she could think of no way to express her sadness that did not make her sound needy and ridiculous, she kept silent as she regarded him and hoped that her eyes could convey it. Hope sparked brightly within her as his hand came to lightly encircle her bicep.

"The postal service doesn't deliver mail on Sunday does it?" He asked her almost dreamily and she remained silent as her heart sank. "Not once in the twenty odd years we've lived here. Right hon?" He breathed and her voice cracked as she breathed a quick "No." and fled the room. She returned to her bedroom and cried softly as she fiddled listlessly with her slippers. She knew that Jim would again be the man she loved once the Joker was put behind bars. She hated him. That lunatic always made her husband so crazy.

Jim briefly regarded his upset wife and found himself at a loss to describe her behavior. Soon enough his mind turned back to the unopened letter in his pocket. The unopened letter which had popped up in his mailbox before the sun had risen on a Sunday morning. The unopened letter sealed with the same bat signal he had been forced beat in and shatter beyond repair several years before.

The cadence of his wife's feet tramping up the stairs had dissipated long since, leaving the house in an almost oppressive silence. The letter weighed heavily in his hand as he took the butter knife from last night's half eaten leftover lasagna, wiped the residue on the knee of his pajama pants and gently took it to the letter. He was hyper-aware of the paper sliding across his fingers as he unfolded the note inside.

_Commissioner, _

_To be concise, I believe that the Joker did not, indeed, escape…_

Jim Gordon let out a valiant cry as the letter listed every suspicion and thought he had regarding the situation. Everything from the lack of theatrics to the strange quiet which had descended over the city since his alleged escape was written as plainly as day. He couldn't help but grin. For nearly a week such thoughts had plagued him.

_…and if we wish to catch the perpetrator and see to it that the Joker is returned to a facility of even higher security we must act quickly. Obviously we cannot meet in person, so this will be our line of communication. I believe that someone from the Joker's illusive past has taken him as after last time no criminal on earth would touch him. _

_Judging by the piles of money found in Crane's apartment it is someone of sensational wealth. Despite your office's reluctance, have an inquiry made and ask witnesses to come forward. Investigate Arkham. It should change their minds quickly. _

_Enclosed is a piece of hair. While his finger-prints may have yielded no results as each person's are individual, his DNA will bare a resemblance to someone's and there is a very good chance that it will be a marked criminal within your databases. _

_Send the results to me in this same envelope and place it in your mail box. It will be collected accordingly. _

Gordon nearly squealed with glee. The letter was not signed, but it had to be batman. He simply knew the man would get the Joker, just like he had last time. He looked and saw in the bottom of the opened envelope several strands of Golden hair stained rust green. After deftly maneuvering the stands into a plastic bag he tucked it away and nearly sprinted from his living room to his car. The lab technician Pieter Jacobs owed him a favor and would run the hairs quietly and with no questions asked.

He had only to wait for the results. The first piece of the puzzle which was the joker was almost within his grasp.

* * *

Review reply:

Pride1289: Next chapter! Yay!

A/N: Does anyone else miss the clinic scenes in House MD?


	6. Chapter 6

It disgusted him how easily he fell into old habits. Truthfully most of the old habits had clung to him ever since his escape. The damaging scrubbing every night at exactly eleven forty-three incase she would come home and want him, the kingly feasts he would spend hours preparing only to sit on the floor once they were finished and watch as the flies carried it away piece by infinitesimal piece…

It occurred to him that it really didn't matter whether he was here, there, or anywhere. He was hers, you see. Every last bit! He'd wash for her, clean for her, cook for her, cower for her, remain pure as the newly fallen snow for her! He'd tried, oh god how he'd tried- but he could just never bring himself to do it. There was nothing for it. Whether a thousand miles away or chained to the vanity, or to the--green walls--or at the end of her hand. He would always live for her, so he might as well be here!

He stood up a little straighter, grasped the suitcase a little more tightly in his hand even though his fingers ached and cramped. He wondered how long he had been at work even though he knew he could never be sure. He'd never had a head for times, days, dates--none of it. Life was a string of events. Was and had always been a fulcrum swinging and crashing and blurring by of events mangled and twisted into a space between reality and hallucination, between truth and denial, between ether and gravity.

His fingers were burning. He remembered when he used to loathe working. He used to fight as she'd dress him in a suit, place a cigar in his mouth, place the shoes on his feet, and walk him to work. He'd hate his job. He'd slouch and slump and sigh and sleep. She'd always catch him and he'd deserve every burn he got. Once the shards of glass had gotten stuck and he nearly died. He remembered. It hurt bad. Real bad.

"That won't happen anymore! Nope! Nope! Nope!" He chimed as his spasming fingers clutched tighter to the suitcase.

He wondered what she was doing at that moment. Couldn't be anything too fun as he was at work. He bet she missed him. He didn't know if he missed her, all he knew was that the lunch bell rang!

He could never seem to hold it in after he ate. In fact, his office smelled horribly and the rug and walls were stained both sickening yellow and brown. A neatly folded pile of soiled suits rank with urine and excrement was piled in the corner, but it would be wrong not to eat the lunch she so lovingly packed for him. He sat on the suits and opened his suitcase and squealed with glee upon finding five pills and an orange peel.

He tried to take the pills, he really did. But after dry swallowing the forth pill and nearly choking on it all he managed to do was vomit the entire contents of his stomach. Yellow bile poured from his mouth and coated both his chest and the floor before him. The pills came up and lay amidst the bile. He tried to pick them up and retake them, but every further movement made him so dizzy that he could barely breathe and the putrid scent of his own leavings nearly caused him to vomit again.

Unable to suppress his vertigo he shakily stood, leaving handprints of bile on the walls as he fought to stand and await his well-deserved punishment. He was so very dizzy. The little white pills danced before his eyes, swimming in bile as he pushed sticky strands of hair out of his eyes and moaned miserably. He felt so hollow, so afraid, and so very dizzy. He wiped one hand on his suit at the time, using the other to retain balance.

"So dry." He murmured sadly as he licked his lips. "So dry."

* * *

"Master Wayne,"

Bruce looked up from the unread papers he was shuffling to pass the time at his long-time butler. The man was positively glowing with excitement.

"Alfred, what's going on?" He asked with an amused grin and Alfred seemed unable to stop himself from smiling. He held out a dirty envelope that had been clumsily ripped open as if it were a prized relic. Bruce sighed and grasped the letter. He pulled out the paper inside and found two words inscribed in pen.

_**Lyle LaVigne **_

His breath caught in his throat. Was this it? He read down further to find an address. 1344 Mesa Road, Sedona Arizona.

"Alfred, is this it?" He held the identity of a previously unidentified man in his hands.

"No."

Bruce's heart sank.

"However, it is close enough to be a relative. It is our first clue!" The old man was nearly yelping with glee. Bruce's eyes narrowed.

"Alfred, it doesn't say anything about how close of a match this is. How could you possibly know?"

"I asked an old friend for a favor." He answered quickly and Bruce's eyes narrowed even further. Alfred sighed. "I had Jim Gordon run a strand of the Joker's hair we had through their databases of criminal DNA."

"That's brilliant!"

"Thank you, sir. Turns out his closest relation is Lyle LaVigne, Professional Pimp."

Bruce looked as if he was about to either cackle hysterically or cry. "You're joking."

"No sir. He got out three years ago after spending five years in jail for racketeering."

Bruce remained quiet for a long while before suddenly looking up at his butler. "You still haven't explained how you know all of this."

"Turn the paper over sir." Alfred deadpanned and the younger man did to find all that his butler had previously stated.

Bruce rose from his chair, a determined look in his eyes. "Have some fake ID's and disguises ready for tonight."

Alfred nodded and left his office.

andaere: Thanks for the review! Glad you like it. And if you think it's bad for the joker now...


	7. Chapter 7

Bruce smoothed back his blonde wig and fingered his false mustache as he and Alfred came to the LaVigne house. 1344 was a beautiful sprawling ranch on the side of a cliff. The famous red rocks could be seen far into the distance and myriad cacti grew about the property. A fat old poodle lay on the porch panting and regarding the intruding pair with disinterest as its abundant curls wilted in the heat. A metallic black Mercedes and a purple Lamborghini rested in the driveway. The shutters were a soft lavender and the door appeared to be made of stained glass.

A plastic bag with a book inside hung from the door and when Bruce looked down he could see the title: "Goddess: Memoirs of a Transsexual" glinting in bright letters through the plastic. Alfred noticed this as well and the pair exchanged glances.

"It actually makes sense, I think." Bruce said quietly. Alfred only raised an eyebrow in agreement as Bruce rang the doorbell.

Minutes later the door opened and a large, fairly attractive Hispanic man with dark eyes and a shaved head answered the door. He was wearing an extremely askew green bathrobe and red bloomed in blotches down his neck. He peered at the dark suited man with undisguised dislike. Bruce smirked inwardly at the effectiveness of their disguise.

"Hello?" His accent was thick and his politeness obviously forced.

"Is there a Lyle LaVigne here?" Bruce said and watched as a vein nearly burst in the man's temple.

"What's it to you?" He growled and Bruce swiftly removed pulled out the false ID tucked under his shirt on a chain around his neck.

"Agent Stefan Aukes; FBI. This is my partner John Seward. Now, I will ask you one last time. Is Lyle LaVigne here? Or must I get a warrant?" The man glared at Bruce.

"Netta!" He called from the doorway as he moved inside to allow the two men entrance. The pair watched as a tall, thin, and surprisingly pretty woman dressed in a corset, fishnets, and red stilettos slinked down the stairs. Her lips were painted the color of merlot and she held a riding crop in her hand.

"Dear me!" She trilled upon noticing the two other men and raced back up the stairs. Alfred chuckled and the larger man glared at him.

"Alejo! Why didn't you warn me that we had guests?" She called, obviously embarrassed, as she ascended the stairs. Her gorgeous shoes and fishnets were still apparent despite the fluffy purple robe.

"I am agent Stefan Aukes and this is my partner, John Seward. We have some questions for you."

She looked confused and immediately took her boyfriend's arm.

"Alone." Bruce added and she sighed. Alejo stormed upstairs and she led them to the living room, a tastefully decorated room done mostly in purple.

"The crimes I committed weren't federal, and even they were years ago. What are you doing here?" She asked and Bruce remained entirely professional.

"We are not authorized to tell you much. Rest assured that we are not here by any fault of yours. Simply answer our questions and we will answer those of yours that we can. Now, you were born Lyle LaVigne. Correct?"

She nodded.

"And now you go by Bernetta Levin."

"Netta actually." She corrected as she crossed her legs and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear jauntily.

"Ms. Levin, we need to know everything you can possibly tell us about your family."

"Starting with your immediate family and working your way out." Alfred added in an incredibly unconvincing American accent that sounded more like that of a Texan who had been stabbed in the stomach.

Netta thought for a few seconds before beginning to speak. "Well, there is my mother and father, Adam and Rowan."

"Are they still alive?"

"My mother's been dead for over twenty years. I don't know about my father. I ran away when I was seventeen." She answered pensively. "And I have two older sisters and two younger brothers; Macie, Helena, Cole and Peter."

"Do you know where we might find Cole or Peter?"

"Cole died in a car crash when he and I were young. I don't really remember much about it. I haven't talked to Peter since we were teenagers. Helena would probably know where Peter is."

"Where can we find Helena?"

"Hold on, let me get you her address." Netta then rose and began to rummage through the nearby end table. She pulled out a piece of paper and passed it to Bruce. "Here you go." She said and Bruce stowed it away.

"Thank you for all your help. We'll just show ourselves out." Alfred said with the same bizarre intonation and the pair rose.

"Agent Aukes." Netta called as they made their way from the room and Bruce turned. Her legs were almost completely bared and her hair was splayed against the back of the sofa.

"Do not hesitate to call if you need…_anything _else." Her voice dropped sensually and Bruce nodded tightly before taking his leave with Alfred.

As they exited the house and shut the door behind them Alfred let out a long- suppressed chuckle.

"Yes, if you need _**ANYTHING **_else." He imitated her voice poorly as they entered the shoddy car Alfred had rented.

Bruce scowled as he got into the driver seat.

"Yeah, well, nice accent." He returned as he turned the key.

"Well, if you bloody wankers spoke the Queen's English like you ought to we wouldn't be having this problem." Alfred replied shortly and Bruce rolled his eyes as they sped off.

He only wanted to know where the hell Chataignier, Evangeline Parish, Louisiana was.

* * *

Review Replies:

Pride1289: Updates will probably be about once a week. I'll try for more but I doubt that I'll be able to very often.

andaere: Yeah, it's the joker. By the end it will all make sense, I promise. I am pretty sure that Batman will find him in a few chapters.


	8. Chapter 8

Bruce could not believe that years after hurricane Katrina Louisiana was still in shambles. On the way to Helena LaVigne's address he and Alfred had passed countless homes with doors, windows, roofs, facades, and even walls missing. Some had reached such a state of dilapidation that they appeared to be rotting and families still clung to even some of these. Trailers appeared to be far more common, and even these were few and far between. It was by and large a lonely, silent trip. The doldrums were only accentuated by the near constant listless fall of drizzling rain.

"Are we there yet?" Bruce murmured with a small grin, if only to break the silence and Alfred playfully swatted him on the head with an empty cup.

"What did I tell you the first time?" Alfred began melodramatically. Bruce chuckled. "What did I tell you the last time?" Bruce snorted. "What have I told you ever last bloody single rotten time you asked!? What did I say when we passed the tree back by the gas station and on the GPS it said we had a few more hours and-"

"Alfred," Bruce interrupted. "If you work yourself into a cardiac arrest in the middle of _Population: us_ Louisiana your fucked. There isn't a hospital for another twenty miles." Bruce grimaced as Alfred again swatted him on the head with the empty cup.

"Language." He admonished before turning his attention back to the road. Bruce sighed and attempted to fall asleep

* * *

Helen Levitt sighed as she looked at the stale bread on her kitchen counter. The corners were distinctly nibbled and she let out a cry of rage. She only had so much money to spend, meaning that whatever food she had, she ate it. If it was expired, stale, moldy in parts, or even nibbled upon by rodents and other parasites: she ate it.

Her forgetfulness often lent itself to her forgetting to go to work (which made it nearly impossible for her to hold a job- not that there were many around for people who _did_ remember to go to work.). Even when she did have the money she would often forget to eat and go shopping. Food that she didn't even remember buying would go stale. It annoyed her greatly, but it wasn't as if she had much of a choice. Who would help the crazy town recluse? Who cared about a mad, middle-aged woman? Who- her thought ceased as she looked out of her trailer window and into the afternoon sun. She pressed a hand against the glass and watched started to trickle from the skies and down the window.

The void she had been unknowingly occupying for hours was shattered by the sounds of knocks on the door and screaming.

"William Burckhardt! FBI!"

She squawked wildly as she rushed toward the door and nearly tripped over her own feet. She landed with a thud against it before righting herself and opening the door.

She blinked owlishly at the men standing at her door. A tall man, so tan that he was almost orange with long dark hair and an older bald gentleman were clad in black suits. The younger, orange, man looked very annoyed.

"Are you Helena LaVigne?" He asked and she squawked again before slamming the door in their faces.

"She's not here anymore!" She cried. "Not anymore! Not anymore! Not anymore!"

As she continued to chant and pound against the door Bruce looked to Alfred. "Maybe insanity does run in families." He murmured and Alfred shrugged before turning his attention back to Helena.

"We are in the midst of an investigation. If you do not let us in and answer our questions you will be charged with obstruction of justice and you will be held in a cell, where our contemporaries will make you talk."

The door cracked open and one dark brown eye, wide with fear, was revealed. "My name's not Helena LaVigne." She said quietly. Her voice was thin and shaking like hanging wind chimes left to brave a tempest. "It's Helen Levitt." The door opened slightly farther, revealing a wan face and miles a frizzy yellow hair. She looked so much like The Joker that it momentarily floored Bruce and Alfred. A long jagged scar spanned the length of her face.

"I don't know what she did, but I had nothing to do with it. I haven't even left here in…" She trailed off with searching eyes and pursed lips and the door swung open the rest of the way. "Why don't you both come in?" She was in a faded dress that must have once been some shade of purple and was nearly transparent as she stepped aside to allow them entrance. Through her dress Bruce briefly caught sight of her petite feminine frame. Well-sculpted breasts nearly tumbled out of the old dress as she sat at a table crammed against e refrigerator and piled high with rotten food. Bruce pointedly looked elsewhere. It took all of his self-control not to grimace at the sorry state of the trailer. It was positively filthy. Alfred took advantage of his inattention.

"I am Agent Hale Rickman and this is my partner, William Burckhardt. We are here on an official investigation. We are not authorized to tell you much. Simply answer our questions honestly and to the best of your ability and you will in all likelihood never hear from us again. Understood?" He said and Helena nodded absently. His accent had improved slightly, making him sound almost American.

"Good. Now, you were born Helena LaVigne, correct?"

She nodded sadly.

"Your parents were Adam and Rowan, yes?"

She nodded again.

"Who do you think we came for that could be linked to you?" Bruce interrupted and the woman paled slightly.

"Well, there's Netta." She finally answered in a tiny voice. "She was running some kind of brothel before her sex change, I think." She said. "And they say that once people start committing crimes they can't stop, although I don't really know what she could have possibly done that's so bad. Netta never had a bad bone in her body. Even as a little boy she was sweeter than most people." She said and sucked in an extraordinary amount of air. Her entire upper body inflated and deflated rapidly before she rested her head in her palm.

"Anyone else?" Bruce asked and immediately her eyes widened.

She swallowed deeply. "Uncle Jim or…" Her voice shook and in a seemingly unconscious gesture brought her hand to her scar. "Uncle Jim was a drug lord when I was a little girl. Peter tells me he's in an institution in Boston now. He went crazy after an ex-wife of his tried to crucify him with a nail gun."

Bruce could almost sympathize with the joker. With the family he was born into, he didn't have a chance.

"That was the night she gave me this." She fingered her scar.

"What happened?" The men asked together.

Helen sighed, tears glistened in her eyes. "Uncle Mike was a womanizer. He had many wives, many divorces, and many mistresses. He wasn't very good looking, but he was very generous. Most of the women he married were content to either hang on until they got tired of him and then divorce him and make some money, but one wasn't.

'I remember that her first name was Briar. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She had long gold hair and grey eyes. She looked like a model. Apparently he always knew that she was crazy, but she was beautiful so he didn't care. She was some kind of staple in the business. I think she tortured people who couldn't pay or something. He always insisted that his wives use birth control and, behind his back, she didn't. The second she announced that she was pregnant he divorced her and she pretty much lost it.

'I was close with him when I was a little girl, so I was the first one he invited over to meet his first girlfriend after he left Briar. That night she broke in…killed his girlfriend, and I watched as she…nailed him to the floor. I was hiding behind the sofa!" Helen started to cry. "She heard me sobbing behind the sofa and came after me. A maid called the police. She was carving into me with a nail and only got this far before they came."

They watched as Helena sobbed in earnest, her head banging against the table. Once she calmed slightly they began their questioning again.

"What happened to Briar?"

"She escaped the holding cell and killed nearly every employee in the building. No one knows how, where she went, or even if she's still alive."

"What about the child?" Bruce asked quietly and Helena shrugged.

"All though, Briar sends Uncle Jim a card on their wedding anniversary every year. Peter keeps them. If anyone knows anything about how to find Briar its Peter. He sent out a P.I and everything several years back."

"Where might we find Peter?" Bruce asked. The thrill of the chase was thick in his veins.

"He's a lawyer in Boston. I'll get you his address. He sends me money sometimes." After rummaging around for several minutes Helena took out an envelope full of hundreds and showed Bruce and Alfred the address. Alfred copied it down.

"Thank you Ms. LaVigne." Bruce said and she only stared blankly at a moldy apple on the counter as he and Alfred departed. Their ride back to the airport was silent.

* * *

pride1289: Sorry for the wait, but I promise that the end will be epic!

andaere: Indeed. MWAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!!

Kichi: Thanks!


	9. Chapter 9

WARNING: FREAKY SHIT IN THIS CHAPTER! IN THE BEGINNING I WARNED YOU THAT THIS WOULD BE FUCKED UP AND IF YOU HAVE NOT BEEN SUFFICIENTLY DISTURBED SO FAR THIS ONE SHOULD DO THE TRICK! IF THE CONTENTS OF THIS CHAPTER OFFENDS YOU: GOOD--THAT MAKES YOU A NORMAL HUMAN BEING. HOWEVER, DON'T INSULT/BITCH/THREATEN/WHINE/COMPLAIN/RANT/UPBRAID/SCOLD OR OTHERWISE ANTAGONIZE ME ABOUT IT. THANKS, THIS HAS BEEN A MESSAGE FROM THE MANAGEMENT.

* * *

If he pretended that she wasn't so cold it wasn't so bad. If only he had a face to replace the grey one before him with. If only he had ever really seen a face besides hers and the damn bat's.

And his face wasn't really a face--flash-- at all! It was rubber!

He wasn't allowed to kiss and never had. He wondered if skin felt different than rubber. Of course he had felt his own skin on occasion, but another's skin must feel--flash-- different than his. The skin of a person must have held some sort of…_something _that a subhuman _thing _like himself did not possess. After all, he was different. Nothing like them. Nothing at all!

Errant cackles escaped him as he pictured tearing welts and violet bruises into the dark rubber which batman was surely made of. Blood poured. He cackled as he thrust inwardly carelessly (after all- you can't hurt a dead girl!) and felt the sting of a hot fire poker pressed against his inner thigh. He cringed as the burnt flesh slapped against the frozen corpse he was chained to. Lights flashed.

Eight silver rings pierced the waxen skin of his back and were tied together with a long woven piece of dark purple silk stained black with blood. It was pulled taught in an incongruously elegant array of twisted bows. Every movement he was forced to endure was agony as the skin of his back was stretched and irritated by the crudely done piercings. His hands were bound to the tiny waist of the nearly blue corpse and the bones of his knees burned from over an hour spent in the same position. His seed leaked down her thigh and pooled on the floor.

"There's a batman." He said and the tip of the poker was pressed to one of the rings in his back. He screamed.

"No other shall touch you." She demanded and tears leaked from his red rimmed eyes. "Say it!" She demanded and his body started to shake.

"Say it!"

"Say it!"

The smell of burnt flesh was making him ill and his response was expelled brutally, like the vomit he could no longer produce.

"No other shall touch me." --flash--

"No other will _want_ you."

"No other will want me."

"_You_ don't deserve _any_ better."

"I don't deserve any better."

"Say it as you practice on her. If you are as celibate as you said, James, you'll need it." She said with grim satisfaction and he took his flaccid penis in hand, showing her that he was spent only to feel the back of the poker against the bottom of his foot. His eyes were too dry for tears, but his body shook as he took his uncooperative member--flash-- in hand and forced it into the impossibly tight vagina before him. He thanked Her inwardly that he was always smiling. He couldn't have laughed.

He didn't find this funny. Not one bit.

* * *

Commissioner Jim Gordon did not know whether it was fate or coincidence, but just as he was about to leave to discuss something urgent with the Commissioner of Boston's police department (on grounds which had not been explicitly stated but he would have bet had something to do with joker), he found an envelope jutting from his windshield. He pocketed it discretely and only opened it once he was on the road and far from view. His eyes nearly popped from within his skull at the message.

_Investigation into The Joker's background has revealed that he came from a rather unique family, with possible ties to now-institutionalized drug lord James Haydn, a transsexual pimp, a female mass murderer of unknown identity (who is both James Haydn's ex-wife and most likely the joker's mother), and prestigious Boston attorney Peter LaVigne. _

_According to a source, she sends Mr. Haydn an anniversary card every year and Mr. LaVigne not only keeps them, but has done much to find the identity of this woman. Pull some strings. See what can be done. Speak with LaVigne. _

Jim Gordon swiftly tucked the letter away and returned his attention to the road.

Several hours later Gordon found himself outside the restaurant that Commissioner Emerson Burton had indicated, a small café halfway between Boston and Gotham, somewhere on the road that most probably would not even note as they sped by. He entered at the appointed time to find the large, rather imposing man sitting in the back with a cup of coffee. His eyes were hazel and his dark hair was peppered with grey. With barely a glance Gordon strode toward the larger man and sat across from him. After sending the waitress off to fetch him coffee Burton sighed and abruptly began.

"I need him." He whispered and Gordon raised an eyebrow questioningly. "You know damn well who I mean. The caped crusader. The masked vigilante. The dark knight. I need him. Now."

"It has been years since he made an appearance. He's a fugitive. Official policy has always been to arrest him on sight-"

"Oh, and yet you don't mention that the murder? Save it Gordon. You've been with him since day one. You still are. If anyone can get him to Boston: it's you."

"And why do you want him? Why now?" Jim asked in a low voice as a pretty young waitress slid a cup of coffee before him with shaking hands. She was obviously misconstruing their conversation and Commissioner Burton glared at her until she turned pale as a ghost. She sprinted back into the kitchen where she eagerly told the cook about the lover's spat brewing in their little café.

Burton glared at him as he pulled out a blue card. It read "Happy Anniversary" In letters embedded in emeralds. Gordon had never seen a card like it. It must have cost a ridiculous amount of money.

He opened it and nearly vomited all he had eaten in the past year. A small man sat naked on the stomach of a corpse. All that could be seen of the corpse was spread legs and a violated pubic area dripping with seed and blood. He sat with his back to the camera. An array of corset pairings dripping blood adorned his ashen back. His head was turned, revealing empty doe eyes and an emaciated face that was obviously the Joker's. The once maniacally jovial man who possessed a strange charisma and radiated unshakable surety was a shell. He looked like a large lost child. Gordon couldn't help but count his vertebra. Pathos such as he had never felt before wracked him.

"Your son misses you." Glinted in emeralds above the twisted passion play of pseudo-innocence and pain. Gordon dropped the card and it clanged against the table.

"There's your Joker." Burton said gruffly and Burton began to massage his temples with the tips of his fingers. "After receiving this three days ago, Haydn attempted suicide. Ripped his gown apart with his teeth, wove a rope with it, and tried to hang himself from the ceiling fan. He only managed to knock himself out--when he jumped he took the ceiling fan with him--and he's been in the hospital with a concussion since."

"This card was given to Haydn's nephew, LaVigne, and since he and I are friends he gave it to me. No one else has seen it. I'd rather keep it that way. After seeing what happened with your office the last time the joker was involved, I'd rather play this one close to the chest."

"Understood." Gordon ran his hands through his hair.

"I've done some digging since. It turns out that Haydn was committed twenty-four years ago when an angry ex-wife killed his girlfriend and attempted to nail him to the wall with a nail gun. From reports all I could gather was that she was beautiful and that she had three aliases: Briar Frazier, Fleur Davies, and Leah Rosamund. Rumor has it that she was pregnant. I would bet my badge that, that woman is the joker's mother."

Gordon nodded. "All though, Haydn is definitely within your jurisdiction. You could go talk to him and get the information you need. She's probably holding the joker somewhere that Haydn would be familiar with."

"I've already done that."

"Then what on earth do you need _him_ for?"

"I'm playing this close to the chest. I don't want my men involved. However, I am sure that wherever this pair of lunatics might be found, they will be done away with when _he_ finds them."

Gordon sighed.

"If you give me your word that you'll get him on it, I'll give you all of the information; including his real name."

"You don't even trust the cops who work for you, yet you are willing to risk your job and reputation to go out on a limb for me and an accused murderer in a bat costume?" He didn't want to admit that merely knowing the joker's true identity was enough to make him want to submit. He was positively dying to know.

"Then call me crazy." Burton said. "But I follow my instincts. Are you in?" He then held out a large, hoary hand and Gordon shook it vigorously. Next he held out an envelope, which Gordon also took in hand. He quickly hid it away.

"Have him take care of it Gordon. If you don't, I'll fucking kill you." Burton peered deeply into the other man's eyes before sliding out of the booth. He left a few dollars on the table before stalking out of the tiny café. Gordon finished his coffee.

* * *

pride1289: Thanks! Glad you like it. If at the end you are still confused feel free to ask some questions, but I promise that most questions will be answered by the end.

andaere: Yeah pretty much. I figured that people who become like that didn't grow up in a happy suburban cookie-cutter home with a lawyer father, a mother who tucked them in every night, siblings named Jason and Jennifer, and a little welsh-corgi named Kipper. And it'll probably get even worse.


	10. Chapter 10

_Name: Jonathan Edward Haydn. _

_Sex: Male. _

_Born on: October 21, 1984 _

_Name of mother: Rosalie Baeyer _

_Name of father: James Haydn. _

As Gordon looked at the beaten birth certificate of a little hospital in North Dakota that had closed fifteen years ago his heart pounded in his chest. That was all of the documentation that existed of the Joker. After that it was if he disappeared for nearly two decades before reappearing in Gotham to wreak havoc. No documentation of schooling, medical records, pictures or anything of the like existed to fill the twenty year gap.

His mother, on the other hand, had countless records and not one of them with the same name. As Briar Nortly she had consorted with cocaine smuggler James Haydn. As Eleanor Blum she had property in California. As Barb Dillon, Violet Henry, Diantha James, and Honey Bloom she had ties to major drug operations. As Naomi Garden: Murder. She had houses all over the country in different names and was wanted in six states under different names. While she had been ignored at the time of the incident, it was incredibly possible that she had been responsible for the bank robberies of the several banks holding James Haydn's money.

From what Gordon could figure out, no one could ever get any evidence on her. She never did anything directly and anyone willing to testify against her would mysteriously have a fatal accident. Needless to say, it wasn't too long before people stopped testifying.

Her birth certificate was also within the envelope Burton had given him. It revealed that she was born only nineteen years before her son in Gotham, Danielle Black, to Andrew and Flower Black. And they were still alive.

Gordon fought to keep quiet in his basement. He didn't want anyone bothering him. He felt like screaming. He nearly jumped three feet in the air when he felt his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. He took it out and saw the bat signal blinking briefly on his phone. He immediately pressed it to his ear.

"I have everything you will need to find him. Where should I drop it off."

Bruce brought his voice down and tried to look as inconspicuous as possible as a car passed by them.

"Walk to the corner of Auvergne and 8th using the shortcut behind the factory in twenty minutes. It will be taken."

Gordon had so many questions, but, per usual, the batman didn't give him a chance voice them. He merely stowed away his phone and with a grim expression raced up the basement stairs.

* * *

As Bruce drove the dingy old Hugo he used specifically in instances such as these Batman kept an eye on the angry young man handcuffed in the backseat.

"You ain't got no right!" He insisted over and over again. "You'ze a murderer! You'ze a criminal. Jus' th'same as I iz! You'ze a murderer! You'ze a-"

"Then I wouldn't suggest testing me." He made sure to add an extra note of menace to his voice and the young man paled considerably. His freckles stood out like pimples against his ashen cheeks.

"Watchu got on me anywah?" He said a little more quietly and Batman seemed to pull a large bag of grass out of thin air. The boy's eyes widened in shock.

"Whenju even take tha-"

"Unless you want me to drag you down town with this bag stapled to your head I suggest that you shut up and listen, Reginald."

"It's Blazer."

"What?"

"My name, it's Blazer."

"Wait behind the old factory. A man will meet you there in fifteen minutes. Ask him for the Haydn files. You will then bring them to me, unopened, and disappear. Understood?"

Blazer nodded, his bright red cornrows flopping vigorously before defiance set in his shoulders. "Wha' if I jus' take dem jawns n' skip out?"

"If you think that I cannot find you, Reginald Henry Carmichael, you are sorely mistaken." Batman inwardly congratulated himself on a job well done as Blazer--Reginald--shut up. They came to a stop on George Street, less than a block away from the old toy factory. He pressed a button on his wrist and the handcuffs on the young upstarts wrists came undone.

"If you are not back in twenty the manhunt begins." With that the doors opened and the redheaded youth bounded out of the car.

Blazer quickly made his way to the old factory. Though he had been given no description at all about the man he would be meeting, he knew he would not be hard to spot. So many people had gone into the old building and never come out that not even the homeless dared to step inside in the dead of winter. He waited patiently by the fence, popping his collar and tapping his foot as the minutes ticked on.

Sure enough, about ten minutes later, a man with his hood pulled nearly over his face turned the corner. It was not long before Blazer recognized him.

_Shit. Shit. Shit! Shit!! Shit!!!_

Nevertheless, he walked up to the police commissioner, praying that it was not some sort of cruel joke and nearly shaking with every step he took.

"Haydn files?" He barely whispered and watched as the man pulled several large envelopes from his pocket and held them out. He grabbed them and sprinted away.

Gordon continued forward toward Auvergne and 8th and Blazer sprinted back toward Batman. He reached the car to find the window opened a crack, just large enough to slip the envelopes through. Blazer looked at this and then knocked on the window. It rolled down a fraction more and he was met with batman's cool glare.

"C-can I have my weed back?" He asked only to have the envelopes ripped from his hands and the rusty old Hugo speed away so quickly that he was nearly knocked over.

Batman sped back to the bat cave. With any luck he could get the joker that night. By dawn the end would come.

* * *

Author's Note/ Review Replies:

AN: Sorry for the long wait. On top of the usual real life crap I just had my wisdom teeth out. For a week I was in pain/ wasted off my ass and even now I'm still detoxing from the pain pills they gave me. Apparently I am more sensitive to them than most people so even a few days after I stopped taking them they are still fucking me up. A few days ago I wore shoes on my hands, clapped them together, and insisted "I am raincloud, I make thunder" for like a half an hour. Now I'm only a bit woozy. There will be one or two more chapters after this and a sequel if anyone needs one desperately. Thanks for all of your reviews. The majority of the people who read my Harry Potter fic aren't half as cool as you guys. For some of the chapters of ARTF nobody even bothered to leave a review.

Ladyvader169: Thanks so much! And thanks for the PM too. I love chatting with people.

pride1289: Awesome. ^ ^


	11. Chapter 11

Bruce nearly kicked himself as he drove an old Toyota with tinted windows toward the first of the several suspected hide outs of Danielle Black and her son. He had trekked all over the damn country in search of the psychotic bitch and her little bastard only to find out that the pair had probably been within walking distance of his house all along. There were four suspected hide-outs: an abandoned old hospital in the slums, a row home in the slums, a house just outside the city limits, and a mansion he had passed almost daily for decades.

He had decided to start with the hospital and methodically work his way out toward the house just outside of the city limits. From Gordon's almost disturbingly detailed reports he had ascertained that Danielle's mother, Flower, had died of cancer in that very hospital. Several months after her mother's death she was expelled from Quincy Jr. High in Gotham. Several more expulsions and a move later she was sent to a juvenile detention center for gouging out a classmate's eyes with her bare hands. That was when all record of Danielle Black disappeared.

From this Bruce construed that her mother's death had driven a young Danielle to some kind of psychotic breakdown. Since she had all likelihood watched her mother die a slow painful in the hospital and psychotics often return to places that are somehow significant to them, it did not seem a far stretch to Bruce that she would have taken her son to the place where she had experienced so much pain. The fact that it was the closest to Arkham, abandoned, and probably of all of the locations the best to hide made it seem even more likely. The only people who frequented it were drug addicts and dealers and they certainly wouldn't report her regardless of the heinous acts she committed.

Bruce wished that he could don his bat suit as he exited the Toyota. While he felt insecure and naked without it, he knew that subtlety was key. While the bat suit was anything but subtle, a dirty man dressed in ripped up jeans lurking around in a beat up car was ignored by the majority on principle. He put his hands and his pockets and his head down as he walked up the block toward the old hospital.

It was a relatively small and dilapidated old building that stood only two stories high. It had been built as a gesture from a local politician in the fifties, but as his funds petered out so did the hospital. The door nearly fell on Bruce as he tried to open it and barely caught it. He slipped inside with a flashlight brandished and gleaming in the dark. The lobby he entered was empty aside from a wild-eyed young woman sitting alone heating a spoonful of heroin by moonlight. Many pairs of footprints had been trodden in the dust and led this way and that. All of the furniture that was there years ago had been stolen.

Bruce quietly walked up to the woman. The flame of her lighter cast eerie shadows upon her face. She took no notice of him as he inched forward. Her quiet curses reverberated off of the walls as she burned her fingers with the lighter again and again.

"Why don't you make some fuckin' use of thuh light and hold it on me?" She barked and Bruce froze. The last thing on earth he wanted to do was help a poor woman shoot up, however, he figured that next to impersonating FBI agents to take advantage of the mentally unsound indirectly helping a junkie get their next high was nothing to worry about. He contemplated how far he had fallen as the woman flicked the lighter with shaking hands and held the spoon above it. Her dark eyes were pained and strained with concentration.

"You seen a woman 'round here?" He asked quietly and she snorted.

"Lot's come around here. Why? You lookin' for a fuck?"

Bruce cringed. "Yeah."

A mirthless smile twisted her prematurely lined face. "Well then, how much you got?"

"I'm lookin' fuh a tall bitch with blonde hair. Seen her?"

"Sounds like you lookin' for a fuckin' model. All we've got is the homeless and hookers. Useless fuckers." She said as she took a needle out of her pocket.

"You know if anyone else is around?" His voice cracked and she sighed impatiently.

"Take a fucking look around if you're so god damned interested in this shithole!" Bruce turned away as she began putting the Heroin in the syringe. With his flashlight held high he turned a corner. A floor nearly stripped of tiles and paperless walls greeted him. The darkness deepened. for what felt like an eternity he walked down hallway after hallway and opened door after door to find nothing emptiness, decay, and the occasional group of homeless people. Several times he had mistaken unconscious bodies on the floor for the joker only to find angry drunks and on one case a corpse. He exited the hospital two hours later thoroughly convinced that neither the joker nor his mother were present.

Next came the old row home that Danielle Black had spent all of her early years in. It was only twenty minutes away from the hospital and almost ten by the time he arrived at Number 9 Caina road. The majority of the windows were boarded up and trash was scattered all over the dead long-fingered lawn. He walked up to the specified row home and his heart began to pound upon hearing bloodcurdling scream after scream emanate from within. Despite his urge to heroically burst down the door, he recognized the need for subtlety and quickly picked the lock. He raced into the tiny house and up the stairs as silently as possible. As light flickered and increased and wavered rapidly and the screaming suddenly stopped. All Bruce could hear was his heart beating in his chest as he drew his knife and inched closer.

Bruce soon realized that he had not walked in on the joker being tortured by his mother, but an old Hispanic man watching CSI: Miami and eating Chinese take-out. With the torture scene at its peak a bright commercial started rolling and the man burped loudly and started to scratch his behind. Bruce gritted his teeth as the screaming gave way to a commercial jingle for Pepsi and the man belched yet again.

Within seconds Bruce was speeding away in his old Toyota. He fumed as he prepared for the drive to his next destination, a mansion within walking distance of his own.

* * *

AN/ Review Replies:

Sorry that I haven't updated in so long. Not only have I had a wicked case of writer's block, but I am honestly just not very good at updating. If you are a faithful updater of your stories than you probably read my last statement and went "What the fuck?". If you, like me, can't seem to keep commitments of any kind, do anything in what others deem 'a reasonable amount of time', and never seem to have the logic to back things up that made sense to you at the time-good for you. You can join my proverbial club of people who do not operate like lubricated cogs in the epically tight pocket pussy which is the collective reality that the big whigs have built upon the illusion of control, so they can continuously thrust their shiny happy pieces into it and groan as they cum destruction on the evanescent middle class, using their tears as lubricant.

pride1289: Right on. Right on.

andaere: Glad you are enjoying it. I would be happy if the Joker lived too, as I want to marry him, have lots of wild sex, and then bear his children. However, It seems that I really can't write a happy story as a couple of years ago I wrote a House Md-LOTR-The Ring crossover comedy and I am pretty sure that at the end half of the characters in it died a horrible death. It was hilarious in a dark sort of way, but not even remotely happy. Sorry about your braces. I remember when I had those. Sucks pretty hard. The only upside is that they leave interesting patterns in skin and it hurts people even worse when you bite them-not that I am condoning biting others of course…..


	12. Chapter 12

Bruce marveled at the irony of it all as he stepped onto the side lawn of the mansion, kept in shadow by the tall trees. As far as he knew an old Asian couple had moved in fifteen years ago. No one knew much about them as when they arrived they had not spoken much English, they never seemed to leave, and when they did the pair kept to themselves and used English as sparingly as possible. He knew that it would have not been above Danielle to simply kill them and then use their house, but as she seemed far more pragmatic than her son it did not seem to be the best option. He skirted the parameter in the dark until at long last he saw that one of the house's many back doors was slightly ajar.

He pulled his mask a bit tighter to his face as he walked toward the open door. He peered inside and found, to his horror, an indistinct and writhing shape tied to an upturned wooden table. He lay spread eagle, with each of his limbs secured firmly to a wooden leg. An open window cast pale moonlight in a square across the man's chest, revealing splotches of the pink, innermost layer of his skin, and muscle. He oozed with pus and his eyes nearly rolled back into his head. His head angled up at Bruce, revealing bloodshot eyes. He opened his mouth and a tooth fell cleanly from between his lips. Blood poured.

"Save me." The man whispered, as his head fell against the table. His pained breathing was shallow but hauntingly audible in the otherwise empty room. As Bruce drew closer a dim, yellow light flickered on.

"He was a snitch."

Bruce looked up to see a tall, ethereal woman with long golden hair slowly stepping down a staircase he had been unable to perceive in the dark. She fingered a small microphone in order to emphasize her point and he small smile tugged at her lips as she quickly pulled out a handgun and pointed it directly at him.

"What do you want?" She asked and her cool glance was replaced by one of mania. "You have fifteen seconds to explain! One! Two!" She stopped and shot directly at his chest. Bruce only managed to escape by the skin of his teeth. A bullet was lodged in the door directly behind him. As she counted she shot. Bullet holes lined the walls and were embedded in the skinless torso of the snitch as Bruce dodged bullets by a hair's breadth.

At last she had to reload and Bruce saw his chance. He rushed forward, grabbed the gun from her hand, grabbed her head, and slammed it against the wall. She crumpled and fell down the stairs, landing right beside the snitch. Without thought, Bruce sprinted up the stairs and entered a long carpeted hallway. Marks numbering dozens lined the walls, writ in blood. Bruce did not see these as he sprinted on.

"Joker!" He called as he rounded a corner to find a hall lined with Japanese art. "John!" He called, opening doors as he went to find an occasional corpse and a fortune in fine furniture, but no joker. He checked every room, closet, and bathroom on the entire first level of the house before working his way up to the second. He had even combed through the kitchen and expected that the house had several others. He was proved right as he worked his way up the staircase only to enter another kitchen. This one had a table piled high with rotten food. It reminded him of the kitchen in Helen Levitt's trailer. He left it and took a hallway that went off to the right. It was lined with rooms and a horrid stench assaulted him as he entered. With a sinking feeling he followed it to the last open door.

It was a bare bathroom aside from a scratched up old toilet without a seat and a window sporting several beige blinds. The valence teetered precariously on the sill. The stench was coming from a towel closet in the back, and Bruce almost could not bear to imagine what awaited inside. He slowly opened the door and before he could blink an emaciated body fell into his arms.

For the first time Bruce beheld the face of John Edward Haydn. It was a face emaciated, scarred, and almost green. The cheeks were hollow, the eyes sunken, lips a mass of scab and swelling, and the hair matted. He felt virtually weightless in his arms and his stench was ungodly. Dirty clothes were matted into wounds and Bruce could feel the strange piercings adorning his back.

"John?" Bruce whispered and the eyes of the shattered man before him seemed to pry themselves open. They were dark, unfocused, and empty. "John?" He tried and those eyes looked up at him with unadulterated panic. He felt the body grow taut in his reluctant embrace. "Joker." Batman intoned softly and dark eyes shut as he started to chuckle softly. His weak imitation of his former maniacal outbursts quickly turned to tears. He wept and quaked like a lost child. Tears ran tracks in the sweat caked on his face.

At a loss, Bruce turned his eyes toward the towel cupboard the man had fallen from. The walls were stained yellow and brown, and what probably was fresh bile lay in a pile on the floor. A suitcase full of pills lay open amidst the pile. It smelled even more horrid than the man he held upright. He was pulled from his musings by a skeletal hand weakly touching the chin left exposed by his half mask. The two fingers resting against his chin felt sticky and left bile where they touched.

"Th-thank you." The John muttered as his strength gave and his hand fell limply. His breathing was shallow. "I fell. I need…to be punished." And with that his eyes, screaming of endless shame and the darkest agony, closed and his breathing became almost nonexistent. Bruce wanted to scream.

With more surety than he had ever felt before, he decided that this man would live. He held him tightly as he sprinted toward the exit, knowing well the shortness of time. He flew back the way he had come only to return to the small room he had entered. Danielle lay by the snitch, moaning in pain as she came to. Her golden hair was pooled behind her and in that moment Bruce experienced an epiphany.

This woman had tortured her child. This woman had made him a killer. She had raped and belittled and abused and _fucked_ her baby. She had kept a toddler locked away like chattel, like a monster, who was meant only to indulge her lurid fantasies and serve her perverse pleasure. She had carved the Joker out of a hapless child with the savage ardor of a stream cutting a canyon. She was inherently evil and had raised a man who had destroyed Gotham and the single-handedly destroyed batman. She had reduced a force of nature to a corpse, and a man of justice to a common liar.

He hardly noticed as his booted foot came to rest above her skull. Her dazed silver eyes looked up at him pleadingly as he lifted his knee and crushed her skull. In those beautiful eyes pain and rage intermingled. Her brain erupted beneath his boot and blood flowed as his moment of clarity vanished. Her leg twitched as blood began run in vermillion rivulets from every orifice. Bruce stepped over her body and exited the room and again ventured into the night.

The Joker stirred as he glimpsed the night for the first time. His lips moved but no sound arose as Bruce raced forward. He only stopped when he reached the car he had parked in a secluded lane. He opened the door and began to place the distraught young man inside.

"But, I need to be punished!" He insisted as tears began to stream down his face. Bruce waited until he calmed before placing him inside as gingerly as possible.

"But I fell!" He whispered as he reached for Bruce's hand, his eye lids falling of their own accord. "But I fell-"

"I know." Bruce whispered in return as he gently removed the smaller man's hand from his sleeve and shut the car door.

FIN

* * *

AN:

The sequel will either be Bruce/John or not. If you have a preference, let me know via review. I don't know what sequel will be called or when it will be up, but there will definitely be one eventually. Thanks for reading, reviewing, favoriting, alerting, and all that. Hopefully you'll stick around for the sequel.

A kiss and a prayer,

L's-A


End file.
